Not With a Bang But a Whimper
by Dances With Pens
Summary: Alfred Jones has been getting drunk every night for a month since he was traumatized by a complete stranger. After he finds a strange pair of glasses while trying to get home, he discovers a world called Marbury with strange dangers. Will he live or die?


Summary: Alfred Jones has been getting drunk every night for a month since he was traumatized by a complete stranger. After he finds a strange pair of glasses while trying to get home, he fins a pair of glasses that show him a strange world called Marbury with unexpected perils.. Will he survive there?

A/N: This is not my first written piece, but it is the first I've judged is good enough to post here. I hope you enjoy it. Updates will be sporadic at best and nonexistent at worse, however, as Fanfiction is banned at my boarding school and I come home once every two weeks at best.

"God fucking dammit!"

A startled homeless person opened his eyes to find a man inches from his position on a park bench, on hands and knees, having apparently tripped over the curb. He was clearly drunk, which explained the tripping, and was staggering back to his feet. The homeless man tried his best to appear a mere pile of rags. While he didn't mind a good fifth of whiskey himself, he had never liked drunken people and something about the flat rage in the blond man's eyes was unnerving. Best to remain inconspicuous.

Alfred Jones finally got back to his rather wobbly feet, swearing under his breath. "Who pu' the damn curb in my way? Jesus Christ!" Swiping his scraped palms over his jeans, he began his wobbly procession back down the sidewalk, past a bum on a bench and a pair of young hookers wearing little but their own skin, fishnets, and miniskirts.

And then, when he was only a block away, promptly tripped over something else.

_Comes with being drunk,_ he thought groggily, attempting to peel his face off the concrete. Then again, ever since last month, he had been drunk nearly every night. He probably should be used to it by now. A few minutes later, as he leaned against a lamppost, he noticed what it was that he had tripped over. A formerly neat cardboard box that now had a dented in corner from the impact with his foot. The strange thing was it had his _name _on it.

Alfred F. Jones, neat script, black pen. Alfred stared at it in confusion. How the hell would he happen to trip over something in the middle of the sidewalk that was _addressed _to him? All the people he used to know never even bothered to call him, let alone mail things to him. And even if they had, it still wouldn't be sitting out on the streets.

After another few seconds of staring at the box like it was about to spring open any second, Alfred peeled himself off the lamppost and scooped it up. Might as well bring it home with him. Maybe it would be another six-pack of beer. He let out a half laugh, half snarl and continued the wobble home.

-Day One,

"Grahh…."

The first thing Alfred was aware of when he awoke was a hangover sprawled in his brain. Like the woman next door, it was grumpy, fat, and disinclined to stop nagging at him. Only in this case, instead of sharp quick complaints it was sharp quick pains shooting through his skull. The light streaming through the broken venetian blinds only made it worse.

Not that the apartment, with rotten takeout food in small heaps all over the floor and a pile of laundry threatening to block the small sunlight, was clean to hospital standards either. In fact, an outside observer would probably used terms such as "Dump heap" and "God that smells awful." Alfred was too far gone to care.

After setting the coffee to percolate, Alfred's gaze fell upon his blinking cell phone and he frowned. He had missed a call. Flicking the phone open, he vaguely listened to his brother Matthew telling him that he was going to come over later, that he was worried at the lack of contact, that Dad said that either Al could move back in or get a job, blah blah blah. "Oh yeah, well, where were you guys when he-" Alfred broke off, fist clenching around the phone until his knuckles were white. It wasn't worth it.

Moving back into the cluttered bedroom, he stumbled for the second time over the box. After a hearty "OUCH!" And some various verbal abuses to thin air, God and the unfortunate box, he pulled it onto his lap.

Slitting the heavy packing tape with his keys revealed a mound of foam pellets. Rooting through the pellets, Alfred came up with a small slim box. Taped to the lid was a business card with "The Marbury Lens" in block print and nothing else. Alfred swore softly, opened the box, and then let out a short bark of a laugh. "Well, that was definitely not what I expected."

Inside the box was a pair of purple glasses.


End file.
